


dumb jokes and stupid pranks

by confectionerybrick



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M, You Have Been Warned, parts of this are trope city
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-24 15:38:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3774112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confectionerybrick/pseuds/confectionerybrick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They could laugh and smile and play along to the others about Amy's fake proposal, because it was just a dumb, meaningless joke. That's them, now - everything escalates to the expense of drawing a laugh, or getting one over on the other. It isn't anything more.</p><p>Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. so tight, dawg

**Author's Note:**

  * For [santiagostyle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/santiagostyle/gifts).



> First couple of chapters are rated G to T. Subsequent chapters will be longer than the first one.

“So, how _did_ you get the ring stuck on your finger? Do I even want to know?”

You instantly beam, leaning back on the hotel bar and looking at your partner, who is slyly smirking into her glass at Gina's drunken inquiry.

“Amy popped the question. It was so out of the blue, I'm still reeling!”

If this had been a year or two ago, Amy probably would have scowled and punched you in the arm. But instead, she nods along.

“I just couldn't wait any longer. It's such a romantic day, and I was kneeling in garbage bags... it just seemed like the right moment. He's made me the most unfortunate woman in New York.”

She takes your arm and Gina cackles while Rosa scoffs, Marcus between them looking bemused. Her hair is soft and she smells of Gina's perfume, which she practically showered in earlier to cover the dumpster smell. You think about tilting your head just so and resting your cheek against her.

But, it was just a dumb joke.


	2. the beef light of my loaf

It's your birthday, and even though you had gotten it off work there was a major development in your drug bust and you were back at the precinct by midday, vesting up along with everyone else. When you'd gotten back, Gina paraded in with a cake topped with five candles (“A more accurate representation of your age,” Holt had quipped, with a rare smile) and you ate three slices because you didn't have time for lunch and if you hadn't, Scully would have devoured it all anyway. You laughed when you looked up from your desk and saw that Amy had frosting on her nose.

But now you've finished processing and are on your seventh beer at Shaw's, with what's left of the squad (Holt had one drink then left for dinner reservations with Kevin, and Hitchcock and Scully got a cab together hours ago). Gina comes tottering over from the bar with a tray loaded with shot glasses, lime slices and a bottle of Sauza Silver. A collective groan comes from you, Amy and Charles, while Rosa cackles and calls you all pussies.

“It's your birthday, bro,” Gina hiccups, slopping liquor everywhere as she pours everyone a shot. “You can't pass on our tradition! We been doin' this every year since you could pick the lock on my mom's cabinet.”

You grin, acquiescing, and reach for the salt. Next to you, Amy grimaces.

“Hand,” you command, and Amy licks a stripe below her knuckles before you grab it and shake the salt over her, most of it going in her lap. She snorts, wobbling on her stool, grabbing your leg to steady herself. Simultaneously, the group lick the salt off their hands, take the shot and bite the lime, to a soundtrack of various noises that signal disgust and wincing. 

You keep hold of the lime wedge between your teeth, spreading your lips into a tight smile over the peel and directing it at Amy, who bursts out laughing and drops her own lime under the table.

“I got an idea,” Rosa smirks, and you drag your eyes over to her. “It's Peralta's birthday, he needs to do more shots. Body shots.”

Her eyes flick obviously between you and Amy, and you start to feel the alcohol kick in a little more. 

“What's the matter, Peralta?” Amy looks at you with eyes lidded from intoxication as she undoes two buttons of her shirt. Your mouth goes dry when you spit out the lime; she's got that look in her face that she gets when she's trying to best you at something, and _yeah_ , you think, _I'll take that challenge._

“Nothing, Santiago.”

You shift your stool so your leg is touching hers, then pick the salt back up. For a moment, you feel Boyle's knowing, amused gaze boring into the back of your head and pause, remembering Amy watching you dance with handsy Aunt Susan – then shake it off. _C'mon, it'll be funny._

Before you're aware of even making the decision your tongue is sweeping over her heartbeat, tasting her hot skin. She leans back and you shake the salt over her chest, never breaking eye contact, then suck it off messily, forcing her to laugh through a grimace. She hands you the shot and you down it, and when you look back your lime wedge is between her teeth. You lean in, noses brushing, and you swear you can't breath when your lips touch and she holds your shoulder for balance.

She pushes you off and you bite down on the lime, watching her as you slurp the juice which starts to dribble down your chin. She grins triumphantly and turns her head, looking back at the rest of the group as if to say _and what?_ and all three of them are gaping at you.

“I did _not_ think Santiago would go through with that,” Rosa says with an impressed smile, and Amy holds up an unsteady fist for you to bump. “I mean, Jake, sure, but...”

"What? I went to college!" Amy declares.

“And do I ever pass up an opportunity for you to be impressed by me?” You slur, propping yourself up on Amy's leg because you're finding that the table is tilting over and she's just there, warm and solid. “Nothing you throw at me will ever faze me.”

“I know you all think we wouldn't just because of... y'know,” Amy hiccups. “But it's totally cool. We're friends, we can joke around.”

She slaps you on the back and you find that your eyes won't leave her face, flushed bright and lipstick smudged. You wipe your mouth of lime juice and a pink smear comes off on your hand, and you laugh.


	3. i'll bet whatever 'cause there's no way i'm losing

“You wanna know what they're talking about?”

Different night, same crowd. You're sat at the bar this time, because you needed a break from Boyle discussing his recipe for handmade Italian sausage and watching Rosa get all affectionate (or as affectionate as you've ever seen Rosa be with anyone, anyway) with Marcus was unnerving you a little. Amy has been in the ladies' for a while, or so you had thought, as you hear the clacking of her boots come from the direction of the squad's table. She hops up next to you and orders another cabernet sauvignon, and a beer for you.

“Is it Boyle over-describing stuffing sausage meat into their skins? Because if so, no thanks - that image is already staying in my nightmares with me forever.”

“No,” Amy replies. “They're placing bets on how long it's going to take us to get it on.”

You look back over your shoulder and Gina immediately stops talking, instead flashing you a smile which you can read like her diary.

“Gina says at least two weeks, Rosa thinks a month, and the Sarge is betting on it happening at the captain and Kevin's vow renewal ceremony.”

She pays for your drinks and you take a long sip of lager, watching her. She's wearing a red, floaty shirt today with a lipstick that matches her wine, and you wish she'd wear that colour more often. She's talking about this as if she's describing what a perp said in an interrogation, and you hope you look similarly composed because in actuality your leg started twitching when she uttered the notion of you two – _well._

You think about her jumping on board with your proposal joke in the alley three weeks ago, and lean a little closer.

“Who do you think will be right, Santiago?”

_There it is._ Her eyes widen, skin blooming pink, and you fail to hold back a pleased smirk because eliciting these kinds of reactions from her is what gets you through the bad days.

She takes a sip of wine, and it seems to imbibe her with an idea because her back straightens and she glances coolly at you. “None of them. I say we spoil their little game.”

Now it's your turn to make deer-in-headlights eyes. She puts her glass down and turns on her seat so her knees brush your ass, and damn it, she's learned to give as good as she gets.

“What are you saying?”

“I'm saying...” She leans forward and runs a finger slowly up your forearm. “Let's fake them out.”

You stare, because you can't help it, and your heart is hammering so hard you bet she can probably hear it.

“You sure that's a good idea? I mean...”

“C'mon, Peralta. You really think it's going to... 'affect our working relationship', or some bull?”

You almost dreaded your first day back on the job after being an Ianucci monkey; you remember just how much your hands shook as you followed Amy into evidence lock-up, which was super dumb considering you can hold a gun as steady as steel. It didn't take you long to bulldoze through any awkwardness and disappointment you felt at her rejection, even if the torch hadn't yet burned out – she made up for it by being even more affable, jocular and supportive than before.

Neither of you even let her surprise confession in Neustadter faze your friendship, or your working relationship – the events at the wedding proved that much. She was pulling your leg about the dancing, but you'd pulled hers about being 'deeply in love' with you, so you guessed that was fair.

_The stuff with you and me is in the past, we talked about that._

She's looking at you now with a sly raised brow, caressing the rim of her glass with a lazy finger. If you don't agree to this, she'll think something's up, and the balance between you will shift again. Perhaps for the worse.

“Okay, fine,” you say, gripping your glass tight and trying to ignore the fact that your colleagues are no longer paying you much attention. “ _Darling_. I'm going to play pinball until I run out of quarters. You can fend off the questions, seeing as this was your idea. And besides - it might be good just to... get it out of the way, y'know?”

The suggestion you couldn't help but tack onto the end causes her to look at you oddly – did you unintentionally give her the wrong impression? - but then she tilts her head, and you exhale.

“Deal.”

And then she's standing, all the better to be in your space, and her hand is light on your cheek and you can taste the spice of wine on her lips. She's sweet and delicate and so moreish, and so much better than you ever dreamed.

Your hand finds her waist to keep her near you, but after a few short seconds she moves away, and every little argument you used to persuade yourself that she and you were through just went crashing out the door.

The group at the table have gone completely silent, but you don't care because she's wiping red off your lips with a napkin and you're staring at how her make-up is smudged from where it transferred onto you, just a little. Her eyes dart all over your face, and for a split second you wonder if she had the same revelation you just did.

But only for a split second.

“Bet you ten bucks I can get a higher pinball score than you.”

You swallow thickly and plaster on a smile.

“You're on.”


	4. this is low, even for you

“You're sure this is going to work?” you press, a little nervous. Your eyes flick between the gun on the table, the wall between them and the next room, and Amy.

“It's our only option,” she urges. “Jake, this mission is important. We have to get this information tomorrow or the case will get thrown out. We've worked so hard for this, and we can't screw it up!”

“I know, I know. I just... this is a huge move to play.” 

Usually, it's you persuading Amy to get on board with ridiculous stunts or covers for a case, not the other way around. You have no idea where she got this boldness from the past few weeks; it's not like she hasn't got guts, or that you both aren't willing to go to extreme lengths in your line of work, but this just seems to be on another level. The more you think about what she's suggesting, the crazier it sounds.

“I know,” she whispers. “And I'm not going to force you, if you really don't want to. I know I've freaked you out by even suggesting it. But... it'll give us a better chance of grilling the Campbells. They already think something's up after you accidentally called me by my real name this afternoon, and they have to believe we are who we say we are. We gotta take drastic measures, and... this will work. And – I'm not saying we have to, y'know – go _all the way_ through with it! It'll be alright.”

“You're insane. What the hell has gotten into you? Just stop and think about what you're saying.”

“Rosa did it when she was with the six-three!” She says desperately. “She still mentions it, says it was hilarious. It'll be like – our own little joke!”

You look her over, standing in the middle of the room in that cheap red gown ( _red, always the red_ ) that belongs to her character rather than her, and scratch your neck. She borrowed more of Gina's perfume for her role as Dora Sherman, and the entire room is heavy with it – it reminds you of sitting next to her at Lynn and Darlene's wedding. You're pacing a lot, uneasy eyes looking from her to the bed to the bustle of Midtown beyond the window. You've started to sweat underneath your waistcoat and crisp white shirt. 

Amy's missing the point. She shifts on gold stilettos, twisting her hands together, and then something comes to you.

“What if we just... fake it?” you grin, snapping your fingers and moving over to the wall. “It's not like they're going to hear all that much, we just have to... be convincing. I'm sure you can shout until your voice goes hoarse, that's how it usually goes down with me.”

“You think that will work?” Amy asks, ignoring your joke and following you so she can whisper. “You think pretending will work?”

“Hasn't it worked well for us so far?”

Every part of her stills, then, like ripples smoothing out into flat water. Her expression drops from desperate and anxious to something softer, and you realise your question has a double meaning that she picked up even before you did. The case? Yeah, it's worked okay so far. Your jokes, bets and pranks regarding your feelings for each other? Not so much. Not for you.

“I...”

She looks stunning in that tacky dress, and you feel your veneer start to crack as you think about that night she kissed you, and how you went home to an empty apartment and _CSI: Miami_ reruns. You turn, cheap shoes hushing on the carpet, and back her slowly against the wall, the one that your targets are right on the other side of. She squeaks a little when she hits it.

“It hasn't, Amy,” you breathe, bracing your arm above her head. “I saw it in you after you kissed me in the bar, and I see it now. I don't think we'll ever get past it, and I... I don't think I want to, either.”

“Jake-”

You silence her outburst with a finger – according to next door, that isn't your name.

“I honestly don't think you have it in you to taunt me that way, so I'll believe that you thought I was over you when you took part in those games and started those dares. But this... suggestion to keep our cover as a married couple? That's insane, and it's... wrong. We have history, and... I have present. With you. I'm not going to do it. We're not going to fuck for the first time as part of our jobs.”

She swallows, and you take your hand from her mouth to trail your fingers over her jawline, brushing a tendril of dark hair off her neck. It takes every ounce of restraint you have to break eye contact and push back from the wall, making your way over to the wardrobe and pulling out an old NYPD shirt and your flannel pyjama pants. The implications that come with _for the first time_ are thick and dry in your mouth, and you can't take them back.

By the time you come out of the bathroom, face rubbed raw in the shower, the main light is off and Amy is sat on the edge of the mattress with her back to you, having donned an oversized t-shirt and some plaid pants that cuff just below the knee. There's no couch or spare bed in the room, and posing as a couple you couldn't exactly ask for one at reception in case it blew your cover.

You slide under the cool sheets and Amy switches off the lamp, following your lead. It's oddly domestic, though there's a chasm of space between you both. You open your mouth to say something, go over tomorrow's plan – but she speaks first.

“I didn't... I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable,” she says carefully, apologising into the near dark. “I'm sorry, I just... I guess I just got carried away with the case.”

“It's okay,” you reply, and it is. You believe her.

She doesn't address the fact that you basically laid out your ongoing desire to be with her, and for that you're grateful because you don't need anything distracting you from the case tomorrow. You settle down facing your edge of the bed, listening to her toss and turn for a while, before her breathing becomes deep and even. It's only then that you turn to look at her, her soft features unworried in sleep, and you drift off thinking about rooftops and fake proposals.

When you stir prematurely in the depth of the night, you find her hand curled on your pillow.


	5. santiago said to dress up, so

You really need to fix the blinds in your bedroom. Or, more accurately, call someone to do it for you. When you messed with the slats yourself you ended up snapping one of them in half, and now there's a pesky ray of light shining right into your eyes and you're betting it's not even seven yet. It's your weekend off, for Christ's sake.

You bury your head into the pillow, groaning, and flip over. It's warmer on this side and you smile in contentment, nestling further down. Your sheets smell of sun-baked lavender and a perfume you spent three weeks picking out, and suddenly there's nothing to be annoyed about.

Your rough hands find Amy's soft curves and press them into your stomach, and the soft noises she makes indicate that you woke her. You kiss her back _sorry_ , her shoulder _go back to sleep_ , her neck _I love you_. She wiggles and stretches and you realise you're half-hard against her hot skin. She doesn't seem to notice, still pulling herself out of the vestiges of a deep slumber.

“Still got another hour, yet,” she yawns, her fingers closing over yours on her belly. You nose into her hair, fingers wandering lower and lower until she sighs, curling back into you. “I was thinking of checking over our bags, actually... but this is good too, I guess.”

“You guess?”

She twists, sliding on top of you until there's barely space to breathe or think, and you're in heaven. It's all slow kisses and unhurried adoration, and the curtain of her hair shields you from the sun. It's so different now than it used to be; you idly remember the first time you fucked in that Manhattan hotel room, not as Dora and Johnny but as Amy and Jake, at four a.m. when you'd both woken and talked and given in to yourselves, and it was rushed and desperate and burning.

“You packed the present, right? And something smart?”

She's strewn across you, sated and beautiful. Your fingers stop combing her hair.

“Yes, I packed my navy suit. If you're that paranoid I can't even pack properly, you can do it yourself next time.”

She smirks and kisses you until your arousal starts to stir again, then pulls back. “Just checking.”

You sigh, rolling your neck to glance at the alarm clock; the ferry leaves in two hours. She takes your movement as an invitation to dot kisses in the curve of your neck.

“C'mon. If we're late then it's another excuse for your mom to hate me.”

She slaps your chest and sits up, letting the sheets pool at her waist. “Jake, for the last time. My mom does not hate you.”

“She tried to make me sit at the kid's table at Thanksgiving!”

“She was joking!”

A frown crumples your face, and her dainty fingers smooth it out again. You can't stay exasperated for long. “Whatever. We should get going anyway, though. I don't wanna be late and ruin the party.”

“You won't. Unless you start telling her embarrassing and-or gruesome work stories again, in which case I will be forced to handcuff you to a remote, immovable object until it's over.”

“Sounds kinky. Will you be feeding me strawberries and bits of chocolate to stop me dying of hunger?” You wiggle your eyebrows and she jabs you in the ribs. “If that's my punishment, maybe I'll find some other way of giving her a heart attack. I think upstaging her Ruby wedding anniversary by telling her we're engaged would probably do it.”

Amy rolls her eyes, climbing off the bed and pulling on her robe. “We've only been dating a year, she'd definitely suspect it was a prank.”

“I dunno, I can be pretty convincing.”

You follow her to the bathroom. She starts to run the shower, steam soon billowing up from the tub and misting on the slivers of bare skin still visible from beneath the robe. She rifles through the small collection of lotions and potions she keeps in your largely empty cabinet, frowning.

“I'm not going to be fake-engaged to you, at least not to my own parents,” she iterates. “Did I run out of shampoo? I thought I brought my fresh bottle over...”

“Use mine. You don't mind smelling manly, right?”

She wrinkles her nose, and you're momentarily distracted from the conversation when the robe slips from her shoulders, only for her to catch it in one hand and hang it up on the back of the door. You don't think you'll ever stop being blinded by Amy.

“Thanks. I'll make a run back to my apartment on Sunday night and get some more stuff.”

She steps into the spray, water hitting the perfect globes of her breasts, flattening her hair into smooth locks that ripple over her back. You get in behind her because you're short on time and snatch up your dollar store shampoo; Amy always complains that it wondrously makes your hair peaked and fluffy while it turns hers into a static, straw-like mess.

“So, here's an idea,” you say, heart in your mouth as you squeeze a generous amount of blue goo into her hand. “What if you didn't have to run back and forth to your apartment any more?”

“You mean, just buy duplicates of everything?” She squints at you, trying not to get suds in her eyes. “I know I'm better at finances than you, but we're on the same salary - I'm not made of money.”

You push her lightly on the shoulder, before sliding your hands down to her waist. 

“No, dummy,” you grin, looking down at your feet. “I mean, what if... if you moved _all_ your stuff here. Or – or I moved _all_ my stuff to your place, if... that's better for you?”

She's silent, hands paused in a scalp massage and lips open in surprise.

“I mean – I could get rid of some of my massage chairs, because I know you'd wanna keep your grandma's rocking chair and neither of our places is that big,” you gabble, panic rising up in your chest like water. “And – and I could sell my turntable, because I know you've been saying its kinda dumb for a thirty-five year old to have one of those and not really use it, and you're right, because when aren't you, really – a-and I promise I'll organise my clothes better so there's room for yours too, and -”

“You're not joking.”

It's not a question, or a doubt. She's looking at you with those big, gorgeous eyes, and your legs go a little shaky. It's a little scary, but exciting, too. 

“No, I'm not,” you say. “And I'm not doing it just to give your family something to gossip ab-”

She kisses you hard to shut you up, smiling through it, and you take it as a yes. She pulls you right against her with an arm around your neck and you laugh when you start to taste shampoo suds.

“We're going to miss the ferry if you keep that up,” you breathe some long minutes later, your back pressed up against the cold tiles. “Roomie.”

Amy runs her fingers in small circles over your chest, like she's trying to tell if what's in front of her is real. She sometimes does this over evidence chain forms or the handcuffs on her belt when she thinks she's made a break in a particularly puzzling case, you've noted. She did it in the light of dawn the morning after your first time – and the time after that, and the time after that.

“Wanna bet?”

–

You do, in fact, miss the ferry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this, and the new episode tonight. I certainly enjoyed writing it on the little hiatus we've had!


End file.
